Benefits
by Emerald Embers
Summary: Living with Pollution is everything it's cracked up to be - i.e. a pain in the arse. Pollution/Crowley, slightly implied Aziraphale/Crowley


Crowley isn't sure when or how the whole mess with Pollution turned from what felt like assault into a relationship, but he appreciates the cruel humour. It matches up perfectly with nearly all human experiences of Pollution as an abstract; a dabble here, a dalliance there, and suddenly you've got fifty tonnes of crude oil washing up on the local beach.

Or in your flat, when said relationship is of a more literal persuasion.

"Crowley," purrs the white-on-white creature on his bed, and Crowley still hasn't worked out how Pollution fades in and out of people's attention when he looks like _that_. "Did you remember?"

Of course he remembered; toffee eclairs, individually wrapped with cheap chocolate filling sourced from wherever was cheapest at the time. Everything feels dirty after Pollution touches it or, worse, declares an interest in it. Metaphorically _and_ physically dirty.

Still, he can cope with cheap plastic wrapping and questionably sourced materials easily enough. It's all too easy to slip into the human mentality of 'it doesn't matter just yet', and he tosses the sweets onto the growing bedside pile of half-eaten indulgences Pollution has demanded.

Sweets aside, Pollution has plenty of habits he leaves the abstract to satisfy alone; Crowley sometimes admires, sometimes fears the human capacity to invent, and while narcotics are comparitively low on the list of 'impressive and also horrifying human feats', they're still on it.

He isn't sure what particular concoction is drifting through whatever Pollution has mimicking veins, but the abstract seems particularly blissful and overly fond of Crowley's sheets today, sliding back and forth against the satin as if he's getting off on that alone.

It wouldn't be that much of a surprise if he is.

"Do you want your reward or not, Crowley?" asks his guest, spreading his legs and slurring very slightly, though whether that's from laziness or whatever's running through his system is hard to tell. Crowley doesn't have to ask about lube; the pale thighs and ass already glisten with goodness only knows what, and he's beyond glad he can't catch anything because even if Pestilence has retired he doesn't want to think about the diseases hidden between Pollution's legs.

Not that hidden, though, given he opens up easy as a Christmas present.

Still, Crowley does his duty, pushing into Pollution and thinking of England, because even if Pollution is undeniably beautiful, he's still creepy. Crowley does everything he can to ignore the one fact that sends shivers up his spine every time since he made the mistake of noticing it.

Pollution has no smell.

Crowley's fucked Pollution until the sweat dripped off him and the two of them were slicked with each other's come, but despite everything Pollution is and does and secretes, he has no smell of his own.

It's creepy, and it's wrong.

But Pollution's a good lay, even when whatever Crowley has for a heart isn't in it.

.

Crowley already knows better than to ask when Pollution plans to stop paying him visits, given last time he made a suggestion that they should spend some time apart ended in him being hauled bodily out of his flat by Aziraphale with a word or two of advice about carbon monoxide poisioning. Certainly, he's been discorporated before, but it doesn't mean he fancies doing it again; the paperwork alone is appropriately Hellish.

Still, he could be complaining about worse, and he's sure Pollution will get bored of him sooner or later. Most people do if he drops a hint enough times.

Hopefully sooner, though. His flat can't take much more of this, miracles or not.

Aziraphale doesn't quite get it but takes everything pretty well, all things considered; seems to find it quietly amusing in his own way, and even shuts up pretty quickly if Crowley drops the slightest hint that he might bring Pollution to the book store. Dinner at the Ritz remains a similar affair to usual, a slice of relative normality to counteract his living with a somewhat sex-crazed abstract.

"Coffee?" Aziraphale asks in mild surprise when Crowley orders it in place of a dessert.

"I need the caffeine."

"Ah. I suppose it must be, er, difficult, to sleep."

"No kidding."

"You must admit though, you are wearing a very attractive body at the moment -" Aziraphale cuts himself off before Crowley has to; he hopes it's got more to do with his raising an eyebrow than the fact it's started twitching.

"Yes, because it makes my life easier. Try tempting people to lust when you're not top of the range material. Remember the mess you made in 1569 trying to do me a favour?" Aziraphale's pursing his lips slightly and the demonic side of Crowley can't resist a smirk. "Are you taking offence?"

"So I'm poor quality?"

"You're not that bad now. Even you have to agree, your sinus problems back then weren't exactly attractive." Aziraphale nods, allowing that victory, and Crowley folds his arms. "Back to the point -" An awkward pause. "The point, which -" And another, Aziraphale looking somewhere between perplexed and faintly amused again as Crowley floundered. "What was the point?"

"I'm not entirely certain you had one, dear." The waiter returns and Aziraphale's eyes widen slightly in a distinctively unangelic way as he admires his slice of lemon meringue. "Do you suppose Pollution might pay attention to your hints if you left bleach by the bed?"

"Already tried that," Crowley sighs. "But the bastard's kinky."

.

Aziraphale finishes first but is patient as Crowley drains the last of his coffee, signs the cheque today as he has been doing for a slightly suspicious length of time now. Crowley thinks it's as close as Aziraphale can come to pitying a demon over getting stuck with something like Pollution.

Without particularly thinking, Crowley buries his nose in Aziraphale's coat after helping the angel up and sniffing deeply. Aziraphale turns and blinks, but Crowley dusts the coat down without batting an eyelid. He doesn't bat them very often anyway. "Just checking you have a smell."

"Certainly, dear," Aziraphale replies, readjusting the coat. "Frigid weather we're having, isn't it?"

Crowley smiles despite himself at the reassurance. Aziraphale's worn through a few bodies but, increasingly thick layers of dust aside, he smells the same as he did to a serpent's nose.

Some things never change.

.

The End


End file.
